I sat on a dried-up fountain outside Claire’s office building. I saw her come out right away; she walked with a few other women, deep in conversation. She recognized me immediately. ‘Hi, Summer,’ she said. ‘Good to see you.’
Her voice sounded so smooth, so adult. She sounded as though she meant it. She wore no makeup, had big red earmuffs on her ears, and there was still something substantial about her size, but in a comforting, Mother Earth way. Her blonde hair stretched down her back, nearly to her coccyx. She reminded me of the women I used to see in Washington Square Park, wearing tie-dyed shirts, banging on bongos and singing.
We looked at each other for a moment, the cold wind swirling around us. ‘Hi,’ I answered, my heart pounding hard. For a moment, I couldn’t remember how old I was, or where we were.
A convoy of policemen on motorcycles passed, going around the traffic circle like they were on an amusement park ride. I expected a big fanfare, a light shining down from the sky, indicating that reconnecting with Claire was good, was right. Claire touched my arm. ‘Do you mind if we stop back at my place? It’s not far from here.’
She lived in a block of apartments with spindly terraces, rickety carports. The walls were drab blue cinderblock. Music thumped behind one of the closed doors, and another had a big flag bearing the Virginia Tech football logo draped over the little peephole. Claire unlocked the apartment door and walked in first. A young girl, probably a college student, sat on the bare floor, her legs outstretched. A little blonde girl of about kindergarten age sat next to her, making a tower out of gigantic Lego blocks. ‘That’s beautiful,’ the college student said, handing the kid another block. When the kid saw Claire, her eyes lit up and her mouth spread into a wiggly smile. ‘Hi!’ she screamed, then ran over to Claire and wrapped her arms around Claire’s legs.
Claire looked at me. ‘This is Frannie. Frannie, this is Summer. Remember how I told you that you were going to meet someone named Summer today?’
Frannie stepped back from Claire and looked at me solemnly. ‘Hello,’ she said.
‘She’s yours?’ I asked Claire, flummoxed.
Claire nodded. ‘Indeed she is.’ She picked up Frannie and put her on the couch. I took a tentative look around the apartment. The furniture was a warm butter yellow. There was a Greenpeace poster of a snow leopard and a framed black-and-white Ansel Adams print on the far wall. A red milk crate filled with dolls, plastic tools, and more blocks sat in the corner. Next to the crate was a battered rocking horse whose white, ropy mane had been arranged into four fat braids. There were at least twenty photos of Frannie on the TV stand. A pair of manly-looking shoes lay next to the coat closet door. I glanced at Claire’s left hand. It was bare.
Claire thanked the girl and gave her some cash. The girl silently stood up and shrugged into her coat. When she left, Claire turned to me. ‘Jen has been a godsend. Most of these kids, they won’t baby-sit for less than ten bucks an hour. I mean, seriously. That’s like two hundred dollars a week! And so many of them come in here and smoke pot. That’s the last thing I need.’
‘What about day care?’ I asked tentatively, not really sure if I had the right to give an opinion. This whole thing struck me as so weird, suddenly, Claire complaining about something so adult and with such familiarity, as if we hadn’t been apart for years.
Claire shrugged. ‘There are so many kids at day care. Maybe we’ll try that later. But Emmy likes Jen for now, don’t you? You guys built that big Playmobil village, remember?’
Frannie had migrated to the other side of the room and was feverishly drinking from a plastic sippy cup. ‘And then the hurricane knocked it down.’
‘She loves hurricanes,’ Claire stage-whispered. ‘She was named after one.’
‘I was named after a tropical storm,’ Frannie said sharply.
Claire started to put Frannie’s toys back into the milk crate. ‘So you were. I was in labor during Tropical Storm Frances. Even though she never became a hurricane, she was still powerful. She caused five hundred million dollars’ worth of damage in the South, after all!’ Claire rolled her eyes good-naturedly.
‘Are we going to go to the pool now?’ Frannie sounded bored.
‘Well, I don’t know.’ Claire took off her coat. She wore a long turtleneck sweater, made with variegated red yarn. ‘Do you have any interest in going to the pool, Summer? We could have coffee after.’
‘There’s a pool?’ Out the window, the sky was steel gray. It was cold enough to snow.
‘It’s indoors, obviously, and just down the street,’ Claire said. ‘Frannie’s obsessed. You and I can swim, too, if you want. The water’s warm. I have an extra suit.’